


Uti Et Frui

by Lady_R



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games)
Genre: And failing at it, Emotional Manipulation, Flashback, Foreshadowing, Framing Is Set In The Present, Gwynevere Is Wife Goals, Non-Consensual Groping, Oceiros Fails At Manipulation, Oceiros Trying To Be A Good Dad, Ocelotte Is A Good Listener, Pre-Dark Souls 3, Pretty Gardens Are Pretty, Religion Vs Atheism, Sulyvahn Is An A$$hole, mutual hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-30 17:46:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14502237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_R/pseuds/Lady_R
Summary: "I have but a request to give you, my dear, little Ocelotte: never become religious. "





	Uti Et Frui

_Are you awake, Ocelotte?_

_I cannot sleep either. Hearing you cry gives me grief. You deserve to sleep on feathered cushions, wrapped in silk comforters. You were born a Child of Dragons: you are owed it all._

_What has come onto me? Nothing to mind, baby of mine. I am always nervous when the first colds come. It was many falls ago when I started losing Lothric and Lorian. I so wish your brothers could see you. You are as beautiful as a gem and as strong as a thousand armies._

_Close those eyes, beloved child of mine. Autumn fades, but we shall remain. I will warm you up with my own scales if you are cold._

_When winter comes, the one that truly hurts, men pray gods. They are but a bunch of slaves: they beg for permission to statues for every step they take. But you see, we all love ourselves a good story._

_There was a man, at the palace, who told them better than everyone. When you will be strong and great, and you will fly above the lightning, we will go get him and we will kill him._

_I can tell you about him, if you want, but mind you: it is no happy story._

 

When the servant tasked to their rooms had announced that the young princes were at the chapel, Oceiros had to call upon all his self control not to grab the unfortunate one by the neck and slam that empty head of his against the wall.

-Lothric knows well enough that he can’t leave his room without my permission. I thought you were to guard his door.-

-We have, your Majesty.- the other answered. -We presume prince Lorian has assisted him in his escape. There’s a windowsill under their window, and when we came in we found it open.-

-And you didn’t inform me on the spot.- Oceiros took one step forward and the servant’s face paled. -We did not see it as necessary, your Majesty. Before we could start searching for the young princes, we were met with a messenger from Pontiff Sulyvahn, to inform us that Lothric and Lorian are to attend their office at half past six.-

-I have not been informed of this.- And he had run off without even looking at his face, pushing away pages and servants in a furious rush to the chapel. When he had come down the last staircase his breath was harsh and his face tense, but as he rested against the wall he was quivering at the wish of slamming the door of that useless dark room open and, maybe, finally kick Sulyvahn away from his palace for good. 

_Religious folks_ , he thought shaking the neck of his blouse to wave himself. _A bunch of charlatans, only good at mouth breathing and soiling the air with that pestilent incense. If that Sulyvahn thinks he can trick my sweet Lorian with his tumbler tricks, it’s me he shall face._

That damned cleric’s thin voice was babbling _stuff_ behind the chapel’s wooden door. Oceiros grabbed the handle and shook it up and down like a rattle. The door trembled, the king pushed it with his shoulder: an iron boom, but it remained close. 

-Why doesn’t it open? What are you doing in there? Lothric! Lorian!-

-Father!- the elder prince’s voice, followed by the tapping of feet. -Let it go, I’m on my way.- 

Lorian opened the door and Oceiros took a sigh of relief. How strong and handsome his son was, his platinum blonde hair tied in a ponytail, his muscular arms grabbing his own to placate their tremor. At sixteen years of age he already was as sturdy as a veteran warrior – and yet, some glimmer of childhood innocence was probably left inside him, if he allowed that parasite to trick him with those fairytales of his. 

Oceiros stared behind his shoulder and found Lothric sitting on a first row bench, Sulyvahn standing by his side like a vulture above its pray.

_How small my son is._

The few clerics he had come across in his life – he tried to avoid those hooded leeches like death itself – were thin, scrawny, plagued by fasting and penitence. Sulyvahn was as tall as an armiger, with shoulders big enough to push down a door, and muscular arms worthy of the fiercest swordsman. Lothric, by comparison, looked like a hen chick in the nest of a falcon. His arms, as thin as spear poles, looked fatigued even by the page of the book he was turning. He had dry, ash-colored hair, and a nose as sharp as the tip of an arrow. Once, a jester had said that if Lothric had dove into a lake he would have floated on the surface like a leaf. Oceiros had personally kicked and batted him away from the palace.  

He pushed Lorian away and trotted towards the first row of benches. -Lothric. How could you?- 

The younger prince opened his mouth. Sulyvahn rose from his chair and spread his arm in front of the youth. Lothric breathed out. 

You think you can protect my son from me, you filthy sophist? I’m his father. What harm could I be for him?

-Do not overstrain yourself, your Majesty. It was me who called the young princes. They wished to be instructed, and I followed their orders.-

-The king’s authority has more value than that of the princes.- Like the father’s authority has more value than the son’s. -You have no right to put your mouth on my offspring.- 

-Please do calm down, father.- Lothric whispered. -I beg you to sit. Your face is red.-

-I don’t need to calm down.- Oceiros slurred. -Lothric, you know damn well why I don’t want you to leave without permission. You’re weak, you may be harmed. And you- he turned to Lorian, who had rushed in from the back of the nave. -Why did you help him?-

-I love my brother.- Lorian whispered. Lothric pushed himself upwards from his bench, but the rush made him shake. Oceiros saw his son fall on the front, the hood falling from his head, his arms looking like the legs of a fly. Then a wooden squeak, and Sulyvahn was there, standing by his side, holding him from above his shoulder like a casualty. 

The relief of seeing him safe and sound lasted the time of a lightning. -Let go of my son, this instant.- he roared. -Lorian, take your brother to your room. Me and His Holiness have an important matter to discuss.-

Lorian nodded, grabbing Lothric by the arm. His eldest had never been an authority. Oceiros watched them walk away on the nave, so tight on each other they looked like one thing. 

Gwynevere was in travail for eight hours, and I didn’t leave his bed one instant. When Lothric was in her arms as well I was so starved I could have eaten a pillow, and there was enough blood on the sheets and the floor to consume ten bars of soap. But they were so beautiful and bright, there next to her. Gwynevere is a deity that exists, that is all – nothing to share with this forger’s slob stuff.- 

-Farewell, father.- the twins chimed in unison. -Farewell.- Oceiros answered. _I love you, never forget it._

When he turned to the altar, Sulyvahn was standing in front of it with crossed arms like an idol. Oceiros jumped: he had heard no sound of steps, and that man was as tall as Lorian’s weapon masters. 

-I am truly sorry for having upset you, your Majesty.- The cleric pulled out his open hand and his smile widened. Oceiros stared at the spread palm, his fisted hands stuck to his thighs. Sulyvahn pulled his hand away. 

-It’s my sons we’re talking about, Sulyvahn.- Oceiros roared. -I will not allow you to dupe their brains with this heap of humbug.- 

-There is no humbug in what I teach them. The Church of the Deep possesses numerous followers, and none of them has ever been disappointed.- 

-Humbug. Like all the rest.- Oceiros expected Sulyvahn to be stunned by his words, but the priest’s pale face showed not even a twitch. _What game are you playing, you chatty thrall?_ -Lothric and Lorian don’t need it.- 

Sulyvahn clasped his hands and folded his shoulders, as if to reduce his size. -Your majesty,- he whispered, -I have no intention of harming your sons. They are intelligent youths with plenty of potential. Allow it to bloom, it will benefit you as well.-

-I know what’s best for me.-

-I beg of you, I want no feud between us. Allow me to talk to you at least, to let you know me.-

_No_ , Oceiros wanted to say. _I have nothing to share with you, nor with that bundle of chitter that you call religion_. But a new thought had moved into his head: manipulate him. Trap him like a fly in the web, with well studied words, and have him understand that Lothric – both the boy and the city – belonged to him and only to him. 

-Have the princes already shown you the gardens in the back?-

Sulyvahn shook his head. -I haven’t had the honor, but I so wish to. I love the local plantlife, and I would be honored to visit them with you. If you’re available, I may even come this evening.-

-In an hour would be more than enough. I’ll wait for you in the entrance hall.-

-I’ll be glad.-

Oceiros quivered like a child. He gave a quick farewell to the priest and rushed up the stairs again. Without running, that time: the moment deserved to be savored. Had it all gone the way it should have, Sulyvahn’s time at Lothric and at his was well overdue. The Gods he could talk to, such as his beautiful Gwynevere, were welcome in his walls: Sulyvahn’s chatter had no place in his palace.

He slammed the door of his bedroom. Gwynevere had gone for a stroll with some handmaidens. Lothric and Lorian were in their room – where they were supposed to be. Sulyvahn was alone against him.

-Servants? May a warm bath be immediately prepared for me.- 

 

_That opinionated preacher will see who he’s dealing with._ The silk blouse whitened from under the azure tunic, hemmed with a silver scale design and tightened at the waist by a silver mesh belt studded in moonstones. The boots were sewn in pearly blue. Three pendants dangled from his neck: an oval-cut sapphire, a platinum and aquamarine chain, and a medallion the size of a candle holder, covered in blue diamonds in the shape of a dragon head. A zircon brooch shone on the blue fabric of the tunic. Oceiros felt strong, _fierce_ , with those ornaments. His skin was still burning after the bath: the water was so hot you could have cooked a soup in it, but he had asked for it that way. I could light the world on fire, if I wanted to. The four of us would be in the middle, protected from any flame, and when it all fades away Sulyvahn won’t be any more than a bundle of ashes. 

He stared at his red-hot hands, and his reflection in the mirror. A servant was spreading his hair in the middle of his scalp, with a line as straight as the rod of an arrow. He scratched his short beard, speckled of grey spots: there were more than he remembered he had. Sulyvahn was a lad, compared to him; and yet he couldn’t keep his mouth shut at his presence.

Nor his hands and tongue away from my sons. I should have had all three of them cut the moment he stepped foot in Lothric. 

The servant put away the comb: -Do you want me to tie them up, my king?-

-No. Leave them loose.- They reached his chest, as straight as grass strings, the greyed azure of the perfume oiled locks shining on his tunic. _Like the scales of a dragon._

-Only bleach men mortify their looks.- 

He raced down the stairs, hastily putting on his leather gloves and the seven rings he had brought with himself. A page at the bottom of the stairs handed him his staff and crown. Three black gold rings, studded in onyxes as dark as the bottom of the Abyss. In recent years it had gotten heavier, and it felt as if he was holding an entire castle on his head, but the idea of looking shorter than Sulyvahn disgusted him even more. In the evening, a neck massage would have fixed everything. 

The pontiff was wearing a crude linen cassock, with a frayed neck, and faded brown sandals. His curly black hair were oily and unkempt, and his white hands, with nails as dirty as those of a pig farmer, appeared even paler under the light fabric. 

And I was just talking about bleach men. -Your holiness.- Sulyvahn knelt, gracefully smiling. 

-You look radiant, my king.-

-You’re very polite.- Oceiros hissed. He opened his arms, allowing a page to clip the cape brooch above his shoulders. He glanced at his reflection on the glossy floor and he smiled, pleased. The white fur collar, the rigid and thick blue fabric, that ran a palm past his feet, the silver sowing, made him feel more protected than any armor. The wide wings of the cape compensated the muscle lacking chest, where his ribs were visible whenever he inspired, and his face looked less diaphanous and scrawny wrapped in the candid fur. 

He removed his left arm from under the cape and gave it to the priest to hold to. As the walked out the door he caught a glance of his belt and realized he didn't have a dagger with him. He cursed himself. _I spent half an hour on those damned jewels, and I am not going for a stroll in the garden with a preacher I barely know without even a weapon._

-You are tense, my king.- Sulyvahn whispered. -Do you need to rest?-

Oceiros froze. -I’m fine. Don’t worry for no reason.-

Nothing to be done, it was too late to have a servant bring him a dagger. Sulyvahn looked disarmed, but his tunic was as loose as a nightgown. Had he had a hidden blade under the fabric, had he managed to pull it out without being seen…

Oceiros held his teeth as Sulyvahn staggered back to allow him into the lift. It was all done now. Whatever would happen, he would have done what he had come for. 

_I am not a warrior like Lorian, I am not a strategist like my brother in law Gwyndolin – another God of flesh, and not of words like his – but I let no one step over me._

 

_You ought to know, my beloved, that Sulyvahn was one of those people who had made their faith into the sword of their battles._

_With that I mean that he employed it: a tool, no more no less than a ransom letter or a poisoned dagger. He craved power, Sulyvahn, and like all the religious folks of his rank he refused to admit it. Pretending to be a slave: worse than being one, in my eyes._

_Yes, my dear, little Ocelotte: it is indeed rather amusing. Your laughter lights up this room like the dragon flames._

_This is religion, in its essence, and there is nothing in this world more pathetic and stupid._

 

-Are you tired, your Majesty?- Sulyvahn’s voice whispered.

Oceiros shook his head no. His feet were sore against the hard soles, but he intended not to show it. Just raising his gaze made the presence of the religious man more comfortable. Autumn had fallen some weeks prior, but the leaves of the bushes kept the emerald green of the warm months; they were so dark they looked painted, and they shone like shards of silver agains the black branches. The king’s tunic and cape, so long it completely covered his legs and feet, rustled against the stone, and humidity had curled the priest’s already frizzy hair into a cloud of damp, luminous curls. 

-Your faith, now…-

-If you are interested, I can tell you.-

It’s there I wanted you, you wretched braggart. Tell me those stories of yours: I at least hope they’re amusing, so that I’ll know that at least Lothric and Lorian didn’t get bored listening yo you. Sulyvahn’s hand wrapped around his, and Oceiros pressed the ringed knuckles against the pontiff’s palm. Maybe, he thought, he’d have scratched him with the gems. He really wanted to see how he could have held his mass with a bleeding hand. 

-Slow down, if you please.- the cleric said. -This is no hunting trip. Enjoy ourselves these marvelous gardens.-

-I loathe hunting.- Oceiros mumbled. -Forests make me nervous.- Rocks, roots, mud staining his tunic, and the tree branches shattering the sun in a thousand useless fragments. -This place, however, is what the world has most perfect. I could stay here forever.-

The humid grass emanated a piercing smell, that surrounded them from all sides. From the way he twiddled his nose, Sulyvahn didn’t look used to it. When he was but a young prince, Oceiros had read enough pages about the Painted World of Ariandel to know what it was like: a blanket of snow as thin as ash, stones so cold they hurt your fingers even from under the gloves, and a grey sun that looked like the eye of a snake, open in the sky. For the first time he felt empathy for the religious man: even he, in his place, would have wished to escape it. 

-Your gardens are an enchantment.- Sulyvahn proclaimed again. -The God’s had paints our land and makes it into the most beautiful of frescos.- 

Oceiros stopped in his path. -With all due respect, your holiness, but your God’s hand had no part in the making of my gardens. The best architects in Lordran planned them, hodmen and laborers built its walls, and my gardeners take care of the vegetation every day. It’s human hands that make this place what it is, and nothing else.-

Oceiros’ Garden, a gift for his fourteenth year of age, and a clever way from King Ovidios and Queen Lorianel to put a barren area next to the cemetery to good use. He had admired every day the clods being lifted and the stones being cut, quivering for every tree that was planted and every meter of path that was completed. Whenever he had a free moment in between the history and rhetoric lessons and the fencing class – and prince Oceiros would have raced up to the Black Gulch to avoid the latter – he would sit on the iron railing, wrapping himself in his cape and dreaming the day he would have walked those gardens first. 

Sulyvahn’s smile widened: -This is what a man who falsely confides in himself would say. Misplaced hopes, your majesty. My faith knows that man possesses no skill unless the hands of the God guide him.-

Oceiros was about to open his mouth, but he stopped at last. _No, I mustn’t let him get me mad._ Sulyvahn stopped in front of him, his hand clenched around his wrist. -See, your Majesty? None of us is born strong. We are not unlike these bushes. Our sun, our rain: it is not us who grants it.- 

He smiled again, and Oceiros had to bite his tongue not to strike him on the spot.

-Are these the fibs you mould my youngest’ brain with? Your religious folks are slaves: you can’t take one step without your God allowing you to.-

-There are no fibs, my king, and we are far from slaves.- Sulyvahn walked down the last step and walked in the humid grass, outside the path. Oceiros followed suite, lips clenched shut in disgust. _Cape and tunic stained in green, so repugnant._

Sulyvahn walked behind the first perimeter wall and stopped right in front of it, clasped hands and that damned smile – Oceiros would have given all his jewels to rub it off his mouth – ever present, a sword cut in the paleness of his face. 

He leaned against the wall to regain his breath and realized he was alone with his adversary. I have no dagger, and if I screamed nobody would hear me. He planted the tip of his staff on the stone and breathed in. He jumped again when he saw Sulyvahn behind him, the colossal armiger back standing over him like a bear in attack stance. 

-Faith, your Majesty,- he repeated, lips as pale as a corpse’s barely moving at all, -is the most powerful of all weapons. No shield can deflect its blows. No blade can parry it. Faith is powerful because it strikes people’s brains and forces them to follow it, hypnotizing them as snakes do, but with the voice of an angel.-

Oceiros took one step away from the wall; Sulyvahn put a hand on his outside shoulder, holding it into pain. 

-Faith is more powerful than a god. With that, nothing is precluded.-

The cleric pulled his face towards his own, a gesture in which a far off spectator would have seen tenderness. But in those thin pale eyes and that half smile there was nothing but derision. 

 

_I cannot tell you exactly what he did to me, Ocelotte. You are but a child, you do not know the evils of the world. You are safe with me now, and whoever tries to take you away from me will have to face my claws._

_I will only tell you that he humiliated me like no one ever did before. We were in this exact same garden, some walls away from here, He stared at me like a caught child, and he_ struck _._

 

-You can obtain anything you want. Anything.- 

The Pontiff's free hand moved to his belt in a dash of white. Oceiros' eyes blocked open. Sulyvahn's skinny fingers widened on his groin, stroking the fabric and what it covered. His hand clenched around his member, strong and sudden, the thumb drawing circles on the tense muscle.

The King of Lothric wailed, staggering back to the stone wall. The pain was a hammer blow to his insides, and Sulyvahn’s stare, with this diaphanous lips contorted in a relaxed smile, derided him even more than that hold. He opened his mouth in a choked scream, his ringer fingers scratching and striking his aggressor’s face. Sulyvahn lifted his right arm in front of his face. The hold around his phallus tightened, a deep and venomous pain, before loosening and vanishing.

But the pain was still there. Oceiros held his arms around his stomach, moaning like a wounded beast. What has he done to me? He freed his face from his sweaty hair, he shook the crumpled up tunic in the spot where the wretch had held it. The shaking fingers of his left hand found his staff against the wall. Oceiros grabbed it, and struck the priest on the face with the dragon head. Sulyvahn brought his hand to his struck face, from which a thread of blood dangled. The dragon head reached the Pontiff’s stomach, throwing prone him on the musk-covered stones. Oceiros lifted himself up, leaning on his staff, and sighed of relief. 

Brandishing the staff with his two hands, carving the floor with the cleats of his boots, he turned the dragon head towards the pontiff. 

-I’ll have you hanged for this,-

Sulyvahn crossed his legs under the tunic. -I advise you not, your Majesty. It’d be a revolting stain on your name.-

-Your tunic is cute, but it’s not cuirasse. It can’t protect you.-

-Nor can it protect you.- 

Oceiros adjusted his hold on the staff: -If you prefer it to the executioner, I can kill you on the spot. It’d be a remarkable satisfaction for me, and I’d be well justified in doing so.-

Sulyvahn moved a lock away from his forehead and crossed his arms on his chest. He was smiling. 

-Would it be as satisfying to be known as Oceiros the Godless King?-

-What does this have to do with your- he tensed his teeth, knees folded in pain -Action?-

Sulyvahn stood up, his thin eyes fixated in his, lips stuck in a smile that Oceiros, hadn’t he been paralyzed, would have crushed into a coagulation of blood with his own fists. _Maybe I’d manage to shut that foul mouth of his. Then I’d move to his hand, oh, what joy it’d give me_. Sulyvahn took a step in his direction. Oceiros’s back slammed against the wall. 

-You’re powerless against me, that’s all. Faith protects me, and with that the scorn you’ll unsell upon yourself when you’ll have twisted one hair on the head of the Pontiff.- 

-I intend to twist you more than a hair.- Oceiros panted. _Why is my voice shaking? Why can’t I look in his eyes?_ It was all going the wrong way, and Sulyvahn’s expression hadn’t changed a palm, not even with the scratches. May the phony God of that shameless one take his fame: he imagined Sulyvahn’s cassock reduced to a bloodied rag, his naked back dripping black blood, a cat-o-nine-tales glistening at the jail’s torches. But he didn’t like it. _It’s humiliation he deserves, not pain._ The pillory, the wheel, a thorny cage in which expose him naked. Yes, yes: the man who had dared to grope his king being humiliated and derided himself by the crowd, and maybe even by Lothric himself. Oceiros felt a chill run down his veins and smiled for a moment. Then he saw Sulyvahn smiling too. 

-I’ll have you jailed!- he roared. -That hand… cut, squished.- _What am I even saying, how am I speaking?_ -You’re done preaching, you’re done with it all. You’re done with my sons!- The image of Lothric and Lorian in his place, that being’s bony hand stroking them _like that_ , clouded his sight. When he recovered, hands tight around his staff, a sob escaped his tensed teeth. 

-How many times have you done this to the boys? To Lothric? To Lorian?-

-Never, Osi.- Sulyvahns answered. Oceiros faltered. _Only Gwynevere calls me Osi._ -I feel no lust for them, nor for you.- 

Then why, Oceiros wanted to scream, why did you do this? He had enjoyed his time thinking of wheels and pillories when he himself had been the biggest fool in the matter. He held his staff tighter. His knees folded like rushes: he had to sit, but tensed his teeth to stay on his feet. Leave me, Sulyvahn. Leave me rest. You stole my children, leave me myself at least. 

-Bigotry.- he huffed. -Typical of the religious kind, but not welcome here in Lothric. In this town love faces no injustices.- 

He noticed he had spoken without reflecting, and he had to call upon all his strengths, as few as they were, not to collapse on his knees by the man that had humiliated him. 

Sulyvahn wiped the blood off his face and scrubbed it on Oceiros’ chest. The king tensed. St _op it, you can’t do this to me, stop it, you can’t, you can’t, you can’t._

-I hold you by a string, my king. Such is the power of faith. I advise you to think of it. And recover: I fear you’ll be feeling some pain down there.-

-Go.- Oceiros roared. 

-I know the way, thank you for showing it to me. I’ll tell the worshippers that I came across a mugger on my way. What will you tell the queen?-

-What actually happened. I lie to no one, let alone my beloved wife. You’ll face her wrath besides my own.- 

-And you’ll have the fury of a whole kingdom against you. And Lothric and Lorian with you. Are you sure you want to put their lives on the plate?-

Oceiros leaned his head down, his back against the wall like a lover’s shoulder.

-No.- he murmured.

-And it’s good.- Sulyvahn patted his shoulder. Oceiros staggered back, hissing. 

-I now have to go, I have to wake up early for the morning mass. I feel like I won’t be waiting for you. Stay there to reflect, Osi.-

And he vanished in a wave of his cassock, the snapping of his sandals on the stone slowly fading in the silent garden. Oceiros was alone with his hasted breathing and his shivering legs, against which he felt the fabric of the tunic burn. 

 

_He was right about the pain_ , Oceiros admitted with distress. He walked hunched on his staff like an old man, boots tracing furrows on the humid terrain, fogged eyes and shaky arms. His crown and cape weighted more every step he took: he threw them both under a staircase, promising himself to send a servant to retrieve them. They’ll ask me why I took them off, and I’ll have to lie to them. Or I’ll tell them the truth and they’ll keep the secret, because I’ll tell them to. 

Halfway up the stairway he sat down, panting. A drop of sweat landed on his thigh. He huddled in his tunic, stroking his numb arms. Supper time was coming closer, and yet he felt no hunger. 

Gwynevere will be asking herself where have I ended up. I should tell her. Yes, yes. She ought to know, at least. If we conceive a third child – and we will, mark my word – I won’t allow him to get any close to them. They won’t even be in the same room. He can’t touch my sons, they’re mine, they’re mine, he can’t take them away from me. Lorian is so strong and valiant, while Lothric… my poor sweet Lothric, you don’t know how much your father grieves whenever he thinks of what you were born for.

His precious Lothric had a purpose, and every day that Sulyvahn spent in his castle he moved away from that purpose like a bird in the nest. 

Oceiros wiped his dripping nose in his sleeve and held his knees to his chest. 

-So this is Sulyvahn’s faith.- he told himself. -Falsehood disguised as strength.-

A bundle of pretty words, of pleasant imagery of sun and rain, to humiliate him like this. Things would have gone differently had there been a guard, had he had a dagger, had he screamed loud enough. He shook his head as if to toss away those thoughts: it wasn’t his fault, it had never been, and he wasn’t to forget it. It was better to accept the matter as it had turned out – there was still time, and many other ways to give the cleric what he deserved. 

He noticed his groin pain was fading away and his breath was slowing down. He had goose bumps: he planned to get up to grab at least his cape, but he didn’t move. The sky was cobalt blue, and the first stars looked like white eyelid-less eyes. He sighed, and a cloud of white vapor faded in the air in front of his eyes. Oceiros stared at it, enraptured. 

 

It was only when the clock struck ten that they found him, curled up against the same staircase he had stopped by. He was massaging his hands and puffing vapor nimbuses, following their flight with his eyes. 

When Gwynevere hugged him, asking him what had occurred, he answered that he had had a faint. -Where are Lothric and Lorian?-

Gwynevere placed a hand on his shoulder. -In their room. They were wondering where you were, but the pontiff had been great at reassuring them. His face was all scratched, it appears someone tried to mug him outside the wall. I was so worried he would have found you too.- 

Oceiros held his hand around his waist, there where the pontiff had wounded him, teeth painfully clenched. Gwynevere sighed, kissing him on the forehead. 

-Go to bed, my love Osi. You’re cold. I had the servants prepare you a soup.- 

Warmth, he thought. I need it. As long as I am here, Sulyvahn can’t reach me. But he could have reached Lothric and Lorian and anyone else. He was stealing his kingdom away from his hands without him being able to do anything. 

_Not yet, at least._

He sipped the soup, so hot it burned his tongue and gums, pretending it was dragon fire in his mouth, and that Sulyvahn was burning like a dummy, away from his children and Lothric.

 

_And this is how it ends: yes, it is no happy tale. Few stories are, my child. Yours could still improve if we resisted together._

_Sleep, now. Wrap yourself in your wings until spring. When you will wake up, you will find me by your side._

_I have but a request to give you, my dear, little Ocelotte: never become religious. Ignore temples and churches, stay away from processions and masses, read sacred books like you would a chivalrous novel._

_Promise me, my child. I cannot lose you too. You are all that I have._

_Will you promise this for me, Ocelotte? I will not allow that man to take you too. I am a dragon now, I am stronger than him. I could bite off the very hand that offended me. We will do it in the future, you and I, but we won’t be able to do so if you allow faith to hypnotize you._

_Promise me this, Ocelotte. Never become religious. Promise me._

_You are a good child. Your father adores you. Never forget that._


End file.
